Dead Man's Land Read online

  No man’s land was like a wayward river, an apparently permanent fixture of the European landscape, snaking over seven hundred miles, from the Belgian coast to the Swiss border. Except the only thing that flowed in this waterway and burst from its banks to inundate the surrounding countryside was human misery and suffering. He was, he realized, looking straight at the belly of the beast that was sending the Empire’s young men home in pieces, or consigning them to an eternity in the soil of France or Belgium. Here be Dragons, indeed.

  Now he could see the method in the Deputy Director’s kite balloon madness. It was to give the uninitiated a taste of what was to come, to bring home the enormity of the task facing anyone who thought they could make a difference to the course of a war being fought on an unimaginable scale. To dent the resolve of an old doctor, a veteran of a different kind of war, a persistent nuisance who should, perhaps, be contemplating his retirement rather than insisting there were new ways available to save the lives being snuffed out on those plains below.

  There came the boom of an artillery piece, and, closer, the manic chatter of a machine gun. A plume of dirty smoke rose from the north and wood pigeons clattered from the trees beneath them. It appeared breakfast was over. And so was this jaunt. He lowered the binoculars.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said the major as he reached across, past Slattery, and yanked at the slow-bleed valve. Florrie gave a hiss and whistle of protest and the major felt his insides lift as she checked her rise and began to sink.

  Slattery looked puzzled. ‘I haven’t finished, sir. There’s a lot more—’

  ‘Apologies, Lieutenant, but I’ve seen enough for one day,’ said Major John Hamish Watson of the Royal Army Medical Corps. ‘And I’ve got work to do.’

  TWO

  It was daylight by the time they had managed to find a bed or a corner for all the new arrivals and make sure their immediate concerns were dealt with. The medical staff never knew what time the trains would arrive at Bailleul hospital, even though it was less than a dozen miles from the front. An hour’s notice, if they were lucky. Ten minutes sometimes. This one came in at close to two in the morning with a half-hour’s warning and two hundred wounded. By the time they reached this stage of the medical evacuation chain, a conventional fixed hospital, the soldiers should have received good basic care and surgery where required, but sometimes the mobile medical units close to the front were overwhelmed and the wounded were simply shunted down the line with minimum intervention.

  That had clearly been the case here, as there were still boots to be cut off feet that hadn’t been out of them for weeks, primitive field dressings to be changed, wounds to be irrigated, limbs to be amputated. And lice to be avoided. Which was nearly impossible. You even ran a risk of infestation if you handled the severed limbs – the greybacks seemed happy to wait their chance to jump ship from excised to living flesh.

  Mrs Georgina Gregson had dumped the stiff calico over-dress they wore on top of their uniforms for dealing with lousy new arrivals – tight at the neck and tied at the sleeves – at the laundry. She was too exhausted to eat, however, and, after picking up a jug of hot water, had gone straight back to the tiny room she shared with Alice Pippery.

  Her roommate was already in bed; the ill-fitting curtains meant she could make out her barrow-like shape beneath the blankets. She closed the door as softly as she could and began to undress. Two cot-beds, two lockers, one shared wardrobe, a mirror, a stool and, in the corner, a tiny and temperamental stove. She knew the position of everything in the room by heart, so undoing laces, rolling down stockings and pulling off her uniform and hanging it up in the half-light was easy.

  She had just smoothed out her cape on its hanger when she heard a squeak. Mice, was her first thought. They infested the lower floors of the hospital. They weren’t as disgusting as the rats that sometimes ventured into the tented quarters, perhaps, but they would chew through anything in search of even a morsel of food. Many a nurse had found her camisole or knickers shredded because of a carelessly stored biscuit or chocolate.

  There it was again.

  It wasn’t a mouse. It was Alice.

  Mrs Gregson moved over to the cot and laid a hand on the blankets. They were vibrating with a familiar rhythm. She came across it on a daily basis, but especially on the night shift. The men in her charge were past caring about any shame at showing any such weakness.

  Miss Pippery was crying.

  ‘Alice?’ She threw back the blankets and squeezed herself in beside her. Alice shifted in the bed, spinning around and sliding her arms around Mrs Gregson. She responded in kind, careful not to squeeze too hard. She always felt it wouldn’t be difficult to crush Alice with one strong hug. She could feel her friend’s heart beating against her chest through her nightgown, as fast as a frightened rodent’s. Alice’s cross was digging into her collarbone, so she moved it to one side.

  ‘What is it, Alice?’

  No reply. Just a long, ululating sob. They all had days like this. Days where you felt the dark waters of despair close over your head. The only surprise was that there weren’t more of them. She stroked Alice’s hair. It was straw-like to the touch. She ran a finger through her own red curls. Worse. Before the next shift, she decided she would take them both down to the bathhouse and bully, cajole and demand enough hot water to scrub them both and check they were free of any infestation.

  ‘Alice? What’s wrong, dear?’

  ‘Matron said I had to go on the cookery – ’ the sentence was punctuated by a catch in the throat – ‘roster. I can’t cook. You know that, George.’

  ‘I do. People still talk about your porridge pot.’

  It was difficult to tell whether her response was another sob or a stifled giggle. It was true that Miss Alice Pippery had once made the worst porridge since Goldilocks picked up a ladle, but stirring a great vat of the stuff on a Soyer stove, without it sticking, was no easy task.

  ‘What did Matron say?’

  ‘That “can’t” shouldn’t be in a VAD’s vocabulary.’

  They were both members of the Red Cross’s Voluntary Aid Detachment, which put them on the lowest rung of the nursing ladder. In fact, sometimes they weren’t even allowed to touch the ladder at all.

  ‘Remember that first hill climb? At Outersley? On your brother’s motor cycle?’

  She felt Alice nod against her shoulder.

  ‘When you looked up that hill, saw how steep and muddy it was, what did you say?’

  A mumble.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘I can’t do it.’

  ‘And where did you come?’

  ‘Third.’

  ‘Third,’ Mrs Gregson said triumphantly. ‘And where did I come?’

  ‘Fifth.’

  ‘Fifth.’

  ‘But that was only because you put rocks over my rear wheels because I didn’t have the weight to get any traction, wasn’t it?’

  Mrs Gregson laughed at the memory of the subterfuge. ‘Tactics.’

  ‘And then they disqualified me.’ Alice punched her lightly on the shoulder. ‘And my parents said you were a cheat.’

  ‘And a liar,’ she added proudly. ‘And I think “a malign influence” was mentioned.’

  They lay in silence, still intertwined, considering this.

  ‘I never thought that, George, ever, even when we broke down in the Lake District and I almost caught pneumonia. If it wasn’t for you I wouldn’t be here.’

  ‘What, lying cold and dirty in a bed, scratching at your lice sores, not having slept properly for months, a lowly VAD who is about to start peeling potatoes as her contribution to the war effort? I hope you remember me in your prayers.’

  ‘I do, George,’ she said solemnly. ‘Of course I do.’

  She had been teasing. She had momentarily forgotten that for Alice, levity and religion could never happily co-exist.

  ‘Do you miss him? Mr Gregson?’ Alice asked at last, her voice tremulous as she picked her words carefully. ‘At
times like this?’

  Mrs Gregson raised herself up on one elbow. ‘What really happened today, Alice? This isn’t about cooking, is it? Or how warm Mr Gregson used to make my bed. Come on, something breaks our hearts every day. I lost one I was fond of the other week. Private Hornby. Lancashire lad with an accent thicker than your porridge. He was fine when I went off shift, when I came back . . .’ She let it tail off. She didn’t want to recall too vividly the state the boy had been in.

  ‘Mine asked me to let him die,’ said Alice, then caught herself. Mrs Gregson felt her stiffen. ‘No, that’s not right. He asked me to kill him. Not in so many words, but that’s what he meant.’

  She had heard of that before. A frightened lad, maimed beyond recognition, perhaps, or knowing he was going to die no matter what the doctors tried. Even heard tell there were some nurses who had acceded to the request. ‘And what did you say, Alice?’

  The door opened with a loud squeal from the hinges and a hand reached in to turn on the light switch. The single, unshaded bulb flickered into reluctant light.

  As she rolled over to see who was disturbing them, Mrs Gregson unbalanced on the edge of the mattress and crashed to the floor, crying out as the wind was driven from her body. ‘Jesus.’ She remembered herself. ‘Sorry, Alice. I mean, good grief.’

  When she had finally lowered her legs and raised her head, she could see Elizabeth Challenger, their formidable matron, standing in the doorway, hands on generous hips.

  ‘Pippery. Gregson. What on earth are you doing?’

  ‘It’s my fault, Matron—’ Miss Pippery began.

  ‘I thought I felt a mouse in my bed,’ said Mrs Gregson. ‘I have a phobia of mice.’

  The matron smirked at the thought of Mrs Gregson fleeing from any small furry creature. ‘Well, I wouldn’t worry too much about that, you’ve been asked to report to the Senior Medical Officer in Charge for reassignment.’

  Now the matron had Mrs Gregson’s full attention. She sat bolt upright. ‘Where?’

  Matron shook her head. ‘I have no idea. But wherever you are going, you’ll be going there with a Major Watson.’

  THREE

  Sergeant Geoffrey Shipobottom hammered his fist on the doorpost of the officers’ dugout. He waited until a muffled voice told him to enter, pulled the gas curtain aside and ducked into the dim interior. The captain was sitting at the rough table, papers in front of him, pencil in hand. Cecil, his Jack Russell, was lying at his feet, eyeing the newcomer with suspicion. Lieutenant Metcalf was lying on one of the bunks, smoking, a small, leather-bound volume of poetry propped on his chest.

  Shipobottom kept his head down as he approached the captain, which made for an awkward salute. The bunker was well constructed of timber, steel plate and sandbags, but the ceiling was far too low even for men of average height. Which Shipobottom certainly wasn’t. Must have been built by Welshmen, Lieutenant Metcalf had joked when they had taken up residence.

  ‘What is it, Sergeant?’ Captain Robinson de Griffon asked.

  Shipobottom detected a brittle, impatient edge to his voice. Not like the captain at all. ‘There’s a balloon gone up, sir.’

  The two officers exchanged glances and Metcalf swung his legs off the bunk. A balloon was often a sign that a barrage was imminent. And after a barrage came an assault on enemy lines.

  ‘How many?’ de Griffon asked.

  ‘Jus’ the wun, sir.’

  ‘And how far away?’ asked Metcalf.

  ‘Can’t rightly say, sir. Not close. Not too high yet, either.’

  ‘Shipobottom,’ said Metcalf impatiently, ‘one swallow does not make a spring. And a solitary balloon does not make a barrage.’ It was customary for at least four to be launched prior to any artillery action, spaced several miles apart.

  ‘No, sir. But, y’know, the men was wondering. If you’d heard anything, like.’ His eyes darted to the field telephone. ‘That might change things.’

  De Griffon studied the big man before him. Like most of the soldiers in his company, Shipobottom had worked at the Lancashire cotton mills. He was taller and bulkier than most of his compatriots, however, with the exception of Corporal Platt, and with a startlingly bulbous nose that suggested a good proportion of his wages never made it to the family home.

  ‘Sergeant Shipobottom, I intend to hold a faces and rifles inspection shortly. Tomorrow, full kit. Then, as far as I know, we will be marching out of here for a well-deserved rest. And as we march, I want anyone who is watching to ask: who are those smart lads? And the answer will be, those are the Leigh Pals.’

  Metcalf jumped in. ‘And if we find anyone who is dragging their feet or dishonouring the uniform, it’ll be Field Punishment Number One before he can undo his puttees. Is that clear?’

  Shipobottom was taken aback. ‘Sir.’

  De Griffon waved him away with his pencil. ‘Dismiss. And, Shipobottom, tie back that gas curtain, will you? Can’t breathe in here.’

  Taking the hint, Metcalf rose and stubbed his cigarette out. Once Shipobottom had gone, he asked: ‘More tea, sir? There’s some condensed milk left.’

  De Griffon nodded. He reached down to ruffle the dog’s fur. ‘What is the matter with Shipobottom? He’s prancing like a filly on hot coals.’

  Metcalf primed and lit the stove. ‘He went to a fortune-teller in Cairo before we left. Apparently, she told him he’d come to a sticky end.’

  De Griffon leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. His blond hair bunched beneath his fingers. He must get it cut. Grew like corn on a hot summer’s day. ‘She probably thought he was bound for Gallipoli. Not much clairvoyance needed to predict what fate would befall any soldier sent there.’ They had missed being transferred to those hellish beaches by a whisker. ‘Still, that doesn’t mean it won’t happen to him out here. Or, indeed, any of us.’

  The nihilism of that remark was so uncharacteristic of the captain that Metcalf was emboldened to speak up. ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, sir, but is everything all right with you? You seem a bit out of sorts.’

  De Griffon’s blue eyes seemed to grow a shade paler as they turned on him and Metcalf thought he had overstepped the mark. They might both be officers, but Metcalf was a Manchester Grammar School lad, who had once spoken in an accent not much different from Shipobottom’s. Metcalf was considered to be – and expected to act like – a gentleman as long as the war lasted, but they all knew his was a temporary promotion to the gentry. The captain, on the other hand, was as blue-blooded as they came.

  The chair landed on its front legs with a thump, and de Griffon stood, remembering to crick his neck at the last moment. ‘Do I? Was I hard on Shipobottom? I thought your threat of the field punishment was perhaps unnecessary, I must say.’

  Metcalf shifted uneasily. ‘Sorry, sir. I was simply backing you up. If I spoke out of turn—’

  ‘Don’t fret about it,’ he interrupted. ‘You know my family, don’t you, Metcalf?’

  ‘Not personally, sir.’

  ‘No, of course not.’ Metcalf’s parents owned several large hardware stores in Leigh, Preston and Salford. They had supplied the de Griffons with goods and chattels, but had never socialized. Although, Metcalf reminded himself, here they were having tea, almost as equals. His parents would be thrilled.

  ‘Give me one of those gaspers, will you?’ de Griffon asked. He took a cigarette from Metcalf and lit it from an oil lamp. He walked over to the doorway and exhaled from the corner of his mouth, so that the smoke drifted out into the reserve trench. What with the black tar from lamp wicks, the constant cigarettes, not to mention the tang of rat piss and the sour smell of unwashed clothes and bodies, the atmosphere in any dugout was oppressive and rank. He saw no reason to add to it.

  Cecil trotted over and slumped to the floor next to him. De Griffon gave him a friendly prod with the toe of his boot and the dog began to worry at the leather with claws and teeth. ‘You know, Bertie – the Prince of Wales – once called my mother “a p
rofessional beauty”. Queen Victoria had thought her “too fast” because, when the fancy took her, she shot with the men at Sandringham. Quite a character, Mother. And she shot until quite recently. Flitcham, where I was brought up, was once a sporting estate to rival Holkham, Malden and Quidenham. You’ve never been?’

  ‘No, sir.’ His family was not the sort to enter a place like Flitcham by the front door.

  De Griffon puffed on the cigarette, his face grown slack as he recalled his boyhood, his features for once devoid of the worry lines the war had gifted him. The captain looked just as he must have done in peacetime, Metcalf thought, a well-groomed, handsome young man with the confident afterglow of a good upbringing, secure in the knowledge of an equally privileged life ahead for generations to come.

  ‘A bag of two thousand or more a day throughout November was not uncommon,’ de Griffon continued. ‘If Sir Ralph Payne Gallwey or Lord Walsingham were visiting, that could be doubled. We had the most beautiful shooting brake, an Albion, to ferry us around. I still remember the wicker baskets of champagne for the guns and the ginger beers for the beaters that would be lugged out to Shillingham Wood. Then, a little more than two years ago, everything changed. The pheasantries are empty now. The partridges strut around as if they own the place.’

  Metcalf, never having heard his captain divulge such personal history before, poured the hot water into the metal teapot and kept silent. He wasn’t sure of the form at this kind of confessional. Did he comment, make sympathetic noises and gestures or simply keep his mouth shut? The latter was surely the safest option.

  ‘My father took ill. Horrible, terrible disease. Wasted away before our eyes. We were lucky, we had a chauffeur, Harry Legge, who was devoted to him. Turned him every four hours to prevent bedsores. Day and night. That’s real, genuine devotion. Drove into town every two days to fetch Dr Kibble, then drove him back. Fed my father three meals a day, which was far from easy. We were terrified Legge would volunteer or be called up. We even put up with his amorous adventures with the housemaids and the cook. Then my father died. Which was a relief. Couldn’t even speak at the end. But my mother went into a mourning that would have done Queen Victoria proud. Legge, poor chap, got blind drunk and crashed the motor car and put paid to his chances of ever serving. Terrible limp. My older brother was already in the army. I decided to enlist to make sure I could get a commission here, with the Leigh Pals. At least it was a battalion I had a connection with, no matter how distant.’